


Transfer

by nmqttps



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Art, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nmqttps/pseuds/nmqttps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart aches. It beats to the sound of his old sorrows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transfer

**Author's Note:**

> Something that I wrote after seeing [this](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=33223801) on tumblr. Not sure if that's what's going on in the scene, but it works well for me, I guess.

The conference was in the middle of London. 

There was once a time when he could take a cab to the building his clinic was sending him for the day— hell, he could have walked there. 

A time when he still lived in London. He didn’t have the money for London anymore.

He didn’t have the heart. 

He took a train in, and transferred underground onto the tube. Cold as was it was outside, it was hot and stuffy on the underground— it flushed the face of the young woman sitting beside him, avoiding his passive gaze by paying special attention to her mobile. The train filled gradually the closer they got to the heart, and John had eventually given up his seat to an elderly woman, hiding his limp as the train lurched him gently to and fro. 

it offered him a good view of each stop as they reached it, however, which was good- a nice distraction. Busy morning people bundled up as much as they could bother, carrying bags and briefcases and paper cups of coffee. A woman in a slightly grubby evening gown playing violin, begging for change— the sound of it entered the car along with the cold and the passengers, stretched and sorrowful— John closed his eyes, pained by the music and the tinge in his leg. The train started again, and the music was gone. 

The next stop, a woman with a pink suitcase and jacket boarded the car. Coincidence.

The next, someone had spray painted a smiling face in bright yellow on the vending machine. Happenstance.

The next—

The train pulled up to the platform, and on it was a man. He seemed to be walking to a second transfer—  John’s heart stopped.

 A tall, skinny man. Long, elegant coat. A mop of curly hair. 

John pushed himself through the people in front of him, aggravating the pink lady, causing the old woman to grumble— he pushed himself through the closing doors, pushing people out of the way to get to him— to the man— to—

“Sherlock!”

He grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around, ready to punch him, to shout, to—

Wide, round face. 

Brown eyes. 

Broken nose. 

“Oh.” 

The man regarded him wildly for a second— John stepped away from him, one foot at a time. 

“Oh, I’m— I’m so sorry.”

His heart started, beating loudly. If the man apologised, John didn’t hear him—

But as he turned to walk away, John watched the familiar outline of his figure, the way he walked. 

For the first time in months, his heart ached more than his leg.


End file.
